The Estelli
by Valgoruth
Summary: Following the Battle for Middle Earth, Eldarion, son of Aragorn becomes king. Through him, the Estelli become as great as their fathers before them.
1. Prologue: This is Not the End

A/N: As my first story appears on the horizon of the fanfiction world, I review my story and contemplate: "How will this story be received?" The only way that my question shall be answered is by the reviews of others. Therefore, I humbly request that this story is reviewed by the greatest of fanfiction authors, including yourself. A warning to those interested only in the Lord of the Rings characters and not the story itself, this story takes place after the Battle for Middle-Earth. That means no Aragorn, Frodo, Gimli, Sam, or even our hero Legolas. Sorry, but it was a necessary thing.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this chapter. I do not wish nor ever will wish to be paid for these stories. All hail J. R. R. Tolkien!

-----

The maid held up the child to the Elven Queen. "It is a boy," she said.

Queen Arwen smiled at her child. "He shall be called Eldarion, for he shall open new worlds to Gondor like his forefathers."

A page ran off to spread the good news around the kingdom. "The child is a boy! The heir to the throne has come!"

-----

"Mother, what is wrong?" The child asked with more than just his voice.

The once fair elven face had turned gray as stone. Never before had she felt such grief. She knew now how her people could die of such a pain.

"You are old enough, my son. Old enough to rule this kingdom."

"What do you mean, Mother?"

"Tar-Elessar has passed. Now begins the rule of his son, Tar-Eldarion. May your rule be long and prosperous."

-----

The new king walked the hallways of the Citadel, filled with grief. His father was gone; his elvish mother disappeared as well. He was left alone. He remembered the stories he was told, how his father was the last of the Numenorean line, why the Shire was now protected from unlicenced travelers, how Men were returning to power.

"Eldarion."

The king turned to see who addressed him without his title. "What do you want?" he he saw who it was he was addressing. It was one he deemed an elven king with great knowledge. "I reserve a week for mourning. No king can deny me that," exclaimed Eldarion apologetically.

"I am no king of the Eldar," said the vision. "I am Manwe, messenger of Eru. I have come to give you a proposition."

"What kind of 'proposition'?"

"One that will better your pitiful race," Manwe thundered the words with disgust. He obviously agreed little with the proposition of Eru.

"Forgive me, milord! I have had a horrible week, with my mother leaving and Southrons invading and–"

"Silence, Eldarion, Son of Elessar! Your father was the last of the Numenoreans, the final Dunedain. Eru feels need to grant him his one request. Yes, Son of Elessar, he came to the halls of Manwe like Eärendil before him. He is the second of your race to do so. It is a blessing given only by Eru."

"What was my father's request?" the king asked timidly.

"He requested that his heirs be bestowed with like splendor as his forefathers: another race of Numenoreans. Your father's true name was Estel, Hope. We name you the Estelli, the Hopeful People. Forthree thousand years, your people will have longer life, greater strength, greater wisdom, honour, and courage than any of the rest of your pitiful tribe! We onlybestow upon you the same condition of your forefathers. Do not sail beyond sight of Middle-Earth!"

"Milord!" the king whispered. "We shall not fail you with this honor!"

"Remember that your forefathers made this same promise! When they failed, the sinking of Numenor flooded part of Middle-Earth! Go now, and restore your land! Wash away the filth of Sauron and become the greatest nation of this Middle-Earth! Peace I leave with you, and may you distribute it fairly."

-----

A/N: Please review! This being my first fan-fiction, I expect and welcome criticism. Just try to keep it helpful. Also, thanks to Dalamar Nightson for beta-ing this, my first project. Don't worry, it gets much better... Much thanks! –Valgoruth


	2. Some that Live Deserve Death

**Chapter 1: There Are Some that Live that Deserve Death...**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the other Tolkien masterpieces. However, I did borrow one very courageous Gondorian knight from the RPG, The Third Age. Although they have the same name, Berethor in this story is actually Berethor III, not the original Berethor. Anything you recognize is not mine. All hail J. R. R. Tolkien!

**A/N:** Two things. (1) This story is now going to take a flying leap to the future. It is now approximately 2600 F. A. (Fourth Age). (2) I need more reviews to keep such a wonderful story going... hint hint.

-----

Valgorúth looked into the eyes of his opponent. The Westron obviously was much more experienced, being more than twice his age. A great battle scar ran from his left eye to his exposed chest.

_How do I beat this?_

The battle began; the blades clashed in fury. The scream of metal filled the air. Valgorúth looked for an opening, but there was none. _Attack, attack! Maybe he'll wear down first._ In came the Westron's blade. Successful parry! Recover. Another blow came, knocking Valgorúth back a few paces. Another, and another. Running out of room, Valgorúth feinted for a killing blow, but the Westron connected the blades. The parry sent Valgorúth of balance. He watched as his opponents blade flew closer, knowing there was nothing he could do.

"Halt! Touch Berethor, fifteen to fourteen. Bout!"

Berethor approached his student to shake hands. "What did I tell you, Valgorúth? After you parry, always riposte! A strong counter-attack like a riposte can be your best strength. You would have had me there if you riposted!"

"Do you actually think _I_ can beat _you_? You're way too good for me."

"If you remember why you were named Valgorúth, nothing can stop you! Control your anger and focus."

"That's what Ada tells me. Good bout, Berethor."

"You too, Val."

-----

"This is your twenty-first birthday. According to the customs of this city, you may officially join the council today. Anything we decide is now your responsibility, too." Araniel looked down at his son with pride.

"Yes, Ada."

"However, Val, you are of the Estelli. This means that even though you are twenty-one, you only really have the maturity of the eight-year-olds of the other men."

"Yes, Father."

"It is an honor, son, a privilege to be one of the Estelli. There are few of us, and all look up to us. Our family is the only Estelli family in Minas Aran. I am the head of the council."

"Yes, Father. It is an honor."

"Come, my child; we will go now."

-----

The council gathered, Araniel taking his place at the head. Three hundred in all was his estimate, and most of them he had appointed himself. Their council system worked, although at times it was tedious and confusing to outsiders. At two hundred thirty-seven years old, Araniel had the most experience, but he was still young by Estelli standards. He had helped found this city which still bore his name, Minas Aran. Suddenly, Araniel noticed a stranger in Easterling travel garb. He addressed the outsider. "Who is this new stranger in our midst?"

"Araniel, I am Túka. I come from Minas Quodi, on the eastern border."

"Speak, Túka."

"Our people are in danger. They sent me to ride to Minas Aran to seek the Wise Araniel. We need the help of Aran. Easterlings of the worst nature are coming. They are but three days away, and it is that far betwixt our fair cities! Not a moment can be spared!"

Now began the tedious proceedings of the council.

"The motion before the council is the aiding of Minas Quodi with all possible speed. Is this the will of the council?"

"Araniel!" came the shouts from the members of the council.

"The council recognizes Berethor." Valgorúth's father spoke with a level voice, dreading the resistance to was that most of the council had. Araniel did trust Berethor, however, even with his own life.

Berethor stood. "As head of the Battle and Stratagem Committee, I would request information from Túka on how many are needed." He resumed his seat.

"The council recognizes Túka," replied Araniel.

Túka looked upon the council with grave anticipation. "Ten thousand come from the Uncharted Plains. Our city has seven thousand fighters. Another seven thousand should be–" His final words were drowned out by cries from the men of Aran.

"Seven thousand! This man is insane!"

"Order! This meeting _will_ return to order!" Araniel fought to have his voice heard.

"Milord!" Berethor again signaled Araniel.

"The council recognizes Berethor," sighed Valgorúth's father, obviously glad for a repose in the turmoil.

"Our city contains twenty thousand able-bodied soldiers. I believe we can send half of what Túka requests, and no more. That should give Quodi a slight advantage."

A man in the back raised his hand. "The council recognizes Đørin."

Đørin had a strong Plainsman accent. "I believe wid all accurasty, dat de men of Aran are not willing to fie for anoder city!"

Cries of agreement and of "Milord!" filled the room.

"The council recognizes Elrodan." Araniel pointed to the aged man near the center of the crowd.

"Thank you." Elrodan turned and glared directly at the Plainsman. "I believe this deed _should_ be done, and without further hesitation! Quodi needs assistance. Remember threescore years past, when we needed assistance and Quodi proffered it freely? We must aid any city in the realm of Gondor, especially our former benefactors! We _must_ fight!"

"The motion before the council is the sending of three thousand five hundred soldiers to Minas Quodi in response to their request and their previous generosity. Is this the will of the council?"

"Where weer dey but twenty-odd yers ague?" Đørin shouted out.

"That was an ambush on the women in the fields! Completely impossible to foretell an ambush, it is!" Elrodan was very adamant for his age.

"ORDER!" cried Araniel. "I will not say it again!"

As the time ran on towards midday, Valgorúth became more and more frustrated with the slow movements of the council. It seemed that the elderly and battle-worn men in the council agreed to the battle, but the young did not remember the valor of the Quodi's ride to Aran's aid. It seemed that every member of the council had a new suggestion, opinion, or outbreak in response to the motions. Finally, Valgorúth stood up in anger.

"Father!"

"The council recognizes our newest member." Araniel smiled at his son. _He must needs control that temper._

"It is my belief that if we are to send out soldiers, it should be done within this year! If some are opposed to fighting for those who have helped us before, maybe we should form a volunteer army. That way, none will ride who does not wish to do so. That should satisfy all."

"A volunteer army. Good idea. The motion before the council is the forming of a volunteer army to send before the forces gathered at Minas Quodi. Is this the will of the council?" Araniel looked for dissenters, but finally there were none. _Such a simple plan._ The gavel dropped with a sullen thunk. "Approved by the council. I, for one, will volunteer. Berethor, please write a note for one of the pages to post throughout the citadel. We ride at dawn!"

-----

Araniel took down Bárang from its post above the mantel. The iron glinted in the firelight. The warrior felt the weight of the weapon and checked the tang and blade. Clean, straight, perfectly balanced. No notches in this sword. He set the blade in its sheath slowly. He cleaned the belt again, watching for the telltale holes of disuse. He approved the knife in the other side. Single-edged, left-handed, ten-inch blade. The knife was almost ten times older than Araniel, rumored to be a gift of an Elven queen.

Moving silently to his room, Araniel withdrew the lengths of mail from its crate. He hadn't the time to check each link, but he inspected the important areas. The arms, shoulders, mending a few about the heart. He put on the heavy armor, covering the steel rings with a leather jerkin bearing the emblems of Gondor and Minas Aran.

Next came the helm. This too was an ancient piece. It was rumored to have been worn by Eldarion himself as he explored the Uncharted Plains. Araniel left the helmet on its stand until the rest of his armor was secure.

He heard a sound behind him and turned as Valgorúth entered the room. "Ah, my son. So that's where my gauntlets are." Bemused, Araniel watched his child try to wield Bárang by himself. "Don't worry, Val. I couldn't pick it up until I was fifty-seven."

"Father, I volunteered." There, the truth was out. Valgorúth cringed at the coming explosion.

"Volunteered?" Surprisingly, Araniel was calm. "You know I can't let you go. You're not ready."

"I almost beat Berethor today, Ada. Fifteen to fourteen."

"Almost isn't good enough in life or death, Val."

"Father, I can beat any grown man except you and Berethor. Why should a few barbaric Easterlings be any different?"

"My son, there are thousands of Easterlings out there. They have good armor and hide behind tall shields. They are well-trained, despite their barbarism."

"They don't scare me!" Valgorúth tried to sound defiant.

"My son, if there were only one or two small bands, I would allow you to go. However, ten thousand is a large number. What would you do when surrounded? Berethor hasn't taught you that, yet."

Silence emanated from the boy.

"War is not a desirable thing," Araniel continued. "It brings me no joy to see the fields of blood and dead bodies. It brings me no thrill to see a man's head become sundered from his body. Happiness does not rack my heart when _my_ soldiers are slaughtered!" Araniel knelt before the child. "And I do not wish to see my son die before my face."

Valgorúth looked into his father's gaze. Love and tears mingled together in the starry pools of light. "I just want to be a hero. Like you."

"You shall be, my son. Do not wish for age too quickly. It comes soon enough into all lives, even ours. You are only twenty-one. When you can wield my sword, I'll let you fight all the battles you want. How's that?"

"I still wish to fight, Ada." Valgorúth was determined.

Araniel sighed. The Estelli were cursed with a strong will. "Stay at home. Be safe; have peace."

-----

Valgorúth followed the battalions at a safe distance. With Estelli eyesight, Val could spot a fly at two thousand yards. He wasn't looking for flies, though. The cry of battle beckoned to him. He was ready. He could beat any foe, no matter how strong. His only worry was that his father might glance back and see him. So far the journey had been through woods and hills, but soon they would enter the Eastern Plains, flat country with no trees or shrubbery as far as the eye can see. When they enter the Plains, Val would have to track from a distance.

Valgorúth glanced at the light sword he held. Although it was good for long battles, the sword wasn't very menacing. Val's tactics were mostly _attack, attack_, but a sword as light as this wouldn't push the enemy back any.

"This sword isn't worthy of a name." Valgorúth eyed the sword with contempt. He shifted his buckler on his arm. "Shields are for cowards," Val thought. "Why would they issue a shield?" Valgorúth became annoyed with the limited movement the shield caused and threw it away.

The strength of Minas Aran was in its calvary. Like the fable Ride of the Rohirrim, the Arani could sweep through foot soldiers like a blade through water. However, the main point of a calvary is to overwhelm the enemy. Valgorúth knew it would be impossible to charge onto the field by himself. He decided to dismount when he got close and sneak up on them. If he remembered correctly, there was an old forest near Quodi. He hoped it was still there. There were rumors of moving trees in that wood. Valgorúth recalled the story of Isengard and the Ents who lost their Entwives. He always thought the Eastern Plains would be a place they might like.

"Enough of children's stories," Valgorúth muttered. "Focus. I must focus."

_There is a war to be won..._

_-----_

**A/N:** Thank you to all the reviews. By the way, if anyone doesn't wish to log on before reviewing, I have recently enabled that feature. Sorry for the inconvenience.

We're finally into the story. My favorite parts are coming up in a couple of chapters... Keep reading!

**Sarahbarr17**: Thank you for reviewing! My first one. I'm happy. Yes, I have read the Silmarillion, as well as many other works of Tolkien. The idea of the Estelli came from one of Tolkien's writings in which he stated that Men don't go to Manwë's hall after death, that only Elves do so. Keep reading.

**Dalamar Nightson**: Thanks for reviewing. HEY EVERYBODY, THIS IS MY BETA! It's all your fault if you miss anything. Hehehe. Yeah, I fixed the problem. I hope.

"Beauty- something that when you finally believe it, it doesn't matter, doesn't even exist anymore."

–A very nice young lady...


	3. Some that Die Deserve Life

Chapter Two: "Some That Die Deserve Life"

**Disclaimer**: I own none of the Lord of the Rings or related works. I do not own Berethor, as he is property of "The Third Age." I own Ðørin, but not Thorin. Don't confuse the two, as they are completely different people, even though the pronunciation of Ðørin is very similar to Thorin. Valgorúth is mine, as well as Araniel and anyone you do not recognize. Those you do recognize are descendants of their namesakes, not the people themselves. All hail J. R. R. Tolkien!

**A/N**: Although I'm delighted to hear from Sarah Barr and Dally, I must say that there is a lack of reviews. Please review. Reviews fuel inspiration and enlighten the mind. Response from the reader is what separates fan-fiction writers from the authors of regular books; we actually get to enjoy the responses of our readers and possibly edit our work so as to please our audience more. Comments, concerns, reviews—all would be greatly appreciated.

-----

"I sense something." Araniel turned around in his saddle for the forty-seventh time. Even the four thousand volunteers did little to ease his conscience.

"Relax, milord," replied Berethor. "You must focus on what's ahead, not on who you left behind. If we all thought of our wives and children, we would be in an uproar. It is most important that our leaders… Milord? Are you listening to me?"

"It is said that the Elves could die of grief. I sometimes envy that luxury."

"Milord, with all due respect, that happened over twenty years ago! A complete accident; nothing was your fault."

"She was the fairest in all Gondor. All else withered beside my love, my Elanor."

"Yes, milord, but you must admit, she was no Elf."

"However, she was of the Estelli, as well as a descendant of the brave Samwise Gamgee of the Hobbits and of—"

"Hobbits!" Berethor almost slid off his saddle. "You don't actually believe those ridiculous stories, do you?"

"Ridiculous? My ancestors were indebted to the Hobbits for their service in the Great War. My line goes back to Elessar himself! Never say you disbelieve the history of Middle-Earth!"

"I won't say it then, but I'll think it. There's no such thing as a three-foot hero, or a ten-foot spider. I daresay there's no such thing as a Ring of Power, either!"

"Captain, all of those stories are true. Do you see this ring? This is a copy of the Ring of Barahir. It is given to every member of the Estelli upon their twenty-first birthday. I gave one to my son not three days ago. Aragorn himself wore the original Ring of Barahir."

"Until I can see with my own eyes the Ring of Power and place it on my finger, I cannot believe these foolish old wives' tales."

"Berethor, the Ring was destroyed. All other Rings lost their powers and are lost. The last Elven Ring sailed to the Undying Lands with Celeborn. The Rings of Power are gone, my friend."

"I cannot believe it, and no man can convince me otherwise."

"I pray Eru will have pity on your soul."

-----

As the company drew near to Minas Quodi, Valgorúth rode around the battalions. Pushing his horse for maximum speed, Val stayed out of sight of the majority of the army, strafing left for the trees. Upon entering the woods, he slowed his horse to the speed of the Arani army and moved closer, using the trees to screen his movement. Ignoring the odd sounds of the ancient forest, the son of kings strove forward.

-----

"Ah nevi shud a come." Ðørin grumbled to himself.

"Thank you, my friend, for giving of your time." Elrodan and his brother Lindórë were riding alongside the Plainsman in the generals' section. "I know you were against the battle."

"To de cahntray, Rodan, Ah nevi wus agin de war. Mah peoples wus agin de war, no Ah."

"My mistake, my friend. I was under the impression that you hated war."

"Soom, yah. Ah not injoy de sufrin' ah mah peoples."

"None of us enjoy death," Lindórë spoke up. "Nor do we enjoy causing death. That is what separates us from the enemy."

"Ah not see wha de enemy injoy destrayin' de lifes of innocence."

"And we never will, I think." Elrodan sighed as he stared ahead towards the oncoming battle.

-----

"Sound the halt!" Araniel looked toward the city grimly. "Which is the best approach, Túka?" Araniel turned to where Túka was sitting. At least, he was sitting there ten minutes ago.

_Strange._ "Has anyone seen Túka?"

Lindórë answered. "He left the company heading toward the trees. Should I follow him?"

"No, give the man some privacy. Berethor, what do you think about the attack?"

"That ridge looks like a good place to set up an offensive. If I remember correctly, there should be no obstacles between here and the Tower of Quodi. Beyond the Tower is the Sea of Atlan, and after that, the Uncharted Plains."

"How far a gallop?"

"We should start slowly to conserve the horses' energy. A canter of about five minutes will bring us into firing range. Another two minutes galloping will bring us to the front lines. That means two minutes with little cover. With Easterling archers, I estimate about five percent casualties. That leaves us with more than the thirty-five hundred I had estimated in the Council. Easy victory, but with casualties at thirty percent or more, methinks."

"Thank you for that." Araniel nudged his horse forward so he could address the troops. "Men of Gondor, Arani! Today is a day of death! Look to your left and your right. Ask them their names. One of you will not return from this battle. Let me remind you of this: we are not fighting for ourselves. We are fighting for Quodi. We are repaying a debt of gratitude. If anyone fears for his life, I suggest you go home." No man moved; all were still. They knew their duty and would preserve their honor. "Very well, men. We will assemble on the ridge ahead. Forward, Arani!"

"Arani!" came the cry from the four thousand horsemen.

"Charge!" cried Araniel, signaling his officers to move their companies into position. The cavalry began the ascent of the hill. The sea of horses climbed the ridge and charged into the view of the red-and-white Tower of Quodi and the blood-stained plains of battle. As soon as they came into the sight of the enemy, the Arani let out a never-ending cry of challenge, and the buglers poured into a frenzy. The combination was enough to strike fear into the soul of any enemy.

From the top of the ridge, Araniel looked down on the field of war. Something was different. Araniel urged his horse forward a few steps toward the oncoming battle. Then he saw it. They weren't fighting an ill-equipped and reduced army of ten thousand foot-soldiers. These were cavalry, and the number seemed to have grown, not shrunk as a day of battle would have rendered.

_Treachery!_ "Halt the charge! Sound a retreat!" But Araniel's cry was drowned out by the Arani challenge. "We must save who we can!" Araniel called back to his generals. "After the host! Double-time! Charge!"

-----

Valgorúth edged his horse towards the bounds of the forest. The call of battle was too much to resist, but he could leave to early, or he'd be a target for ten thousand bowmen.

_Patience._

Valgorúth heard the war cry of his people thundering toward the city. He looked out at the opposing army with expectation. Something seemed… odd. He'd never seen what ten thousand soldiers looked like, but it seemed that there was more than double that number. Plus they were on horseback. _Don't we normally fight infantry?_ Another thing caught his glance, but he couldn't place it for a second.

Then it dawned on him.

There were two types of uniform down there. The too-familiar gold and scarlet of the Easterlings and an odd red-and-white striped uniform beside them. Valgorúth glanced at the red and white Tower of Quodi and instantly understood.

_Treason!_ Valgorúth struggled for a minute. Ride in and be mercilessly slaughtered or fall back to Minas Aran? Honor meant death. Life meant shame. Honor was an important virtue for Arani, but Val was an Estelli. He was promised a long life, of which he had only spent twenty-one feeble years. Valgorúth nudged his horse back to shadow, but stayed where he could see the action.

The death of the Arani was imminent.

-----

**A/N**: Thus ends Chapter Two of _The Estelli_. Review, or my beta will take even _longer_ to check the next chapter (I hope she doesn't).


	4. Can You Give It to Them?

Chapter 3: "Can you give it to them?"

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Tolkien Enterprises nor the works thereof. I do not wish compensation, nor do I wish to take credit for any characters that are not mine, i.e. Berethor, Ðørin, Estel, etc. Kharlûk is mine, unless I have missed any story with a Kharlûk in it. I do not own or understand Black Speech, so if someone knows the meaning of the name, I would appreciate it if they could review and tell me (always asking for reviews!). Oh, and don't try this at home.

**A/N:** Review! Please! The pace is about to pick up, bar any long periods of "Oh, I got a lot of homework" from my beta. No, Dally, I don't buy the excuse. Take that and chew on it. Anyways, read and review.

-----

The plot had worked. The mixed-breed sat in the back of his motley army watching the cavalry's charge. Four thousand soldiers were nothing compared to the might of Kharlûk and Túka! The destruction must be complete, or word would return to Aran. They would fortify themselves and ready for a siege. The Arani are not fools.

_But they're not exceptionally wise either._ Kharlûk grinned with a snarl only he could master. He was the only one of his kind. The captured Arani were prodded and poked until they found the perfect one. She was part Estelli, part hobbit, a descendant of the stewards of old. Not much elf, but she _was_ Estelli. That counted for a lot. Mix in a little Easterling, a little Southron, a little goblin, and a _lot_ of Uruk-hai and what do you get?

Kharlûk sniffed the air. No fear. Not yet. These puny men cannot even see that they are far outnumbered. Almost three Easterlings or Quodi to each Arani. Kharlûk estimated that he had a good five minutes before he should start the counter-attack. Riding to the front of the pack, Kharlûk noticed his Warg-Riders in the middle of the group. Kharlûk motioned for them to move up three ranks. If you start the Wargs in the front, they become outnumbered when the reach the attackers first, but if you start them too far back, you lose too many of your own men. It's a delicate balance when dealing with demonic wolves.

As he reached the front, he noticed a group of riders behind the attacking host racing to reach the rest of the pack. _Araniel,_ Kharlûk snarled. With a growl that would turn an old Warg into stone, he addressed the troops.

"Congratulations. You have just graduated from mere dirt to maggots. Give yourselves a hand." Kharlûk scoffed as some of the less intelligent of his group proceeded to comply. "You cannot lose. We outnumber the enemy three to one. Attack the weakest first and corral the strong. Their generals approach. Try to capture them alive. For now. Let none escape, or you'll never taste man-flesh again!"

Kharlûk noticed a few of the Quodi begin to worry. "Do not desert us. If you do, I will personally increase the hole in your backside with my boot. Rabbles, arise!" Pausing dramatically for an effect only he was capable of relishing, Kharlûk sounded the order.

"ATTACK!"

-----

_Hurry!_ The generals' steeds were of the foals of Shadowfax, stallions of the Mearas. They rode into danger without hesitation, gaining on the cavalry swiftly.

But not swiftly enough.

The horses of the enemy began to move. He saw a opening towards the middle begin to form and knew that the Wargs were on their way. Flying forward, destroying all in their path, Wargs could destroy half of the friendly army if handled improperly. It didn't matter to the warmonger. Wargs meant destruction to cavalry. An experienced Warg-Rider could easily finish of three or more foes before being killed himself, but the Rider wasn't the only problem. Wargs by themselves also would destroy troops. The hide of a Warg is so thick that it will sometimes catch the blade of its attacker and carry it off, leaving a defenseless warrior in its path.

Araniel continued his cries of retreat, but to no avail. The Arani had bad vision compared to the Estelli, and without seeing the spears of their foes, they couldn't perceive the true number of enemies. It was a new tactic, devised by Kharlûk himself. Keep the spears low and the number of troops is indeterminable to the common Man.

The skilled riders in the front began launching arrows to the Easterling force. Two ranks, two lines of bowmen. Those in front fire the arrows and fall back to reload as those from behind move forward. A complete rotation takes less than ten seconds. The shifting line was developed fifty years earlier by Araniel's father. Aside from being an impressive offense, the shifting line often confuses the enemy.

Araniel glanced behind to see his generals in hot pursuit. Ðørin was having trouble staying with the group and was falling behind. Elrodan was obviously in some pain, probably due to his age. Berethor was still riding hard, as was Lindórë. Suddenly Araniel felt that strange sensation again. He glanced into the woods and stared into the forest.

A glint of metal.

-----

Valgorúth saw his father's glance and quickly hid his sword. He knew that his father had seen him; he saw the grief in Araniel's eyes. He also knew that there was nothing he could do, that he should not try. Death was inevitable. Val removed all metal and hid it in his saddle bags. What wouldn't fit he placed under the ferns.

The battle began.

-----

"I am a captain of Aran. I shall fear no death; no evil shall overtake me. Though I stand alone before ten thousand foes, I shall obey my master's command." Sulyë was the first spearman, the third row to meet the enemy. Each spearman had one long spear and one short spear. They also had a short sword and a buckler. The object was to throw the short spear when in range, preferably at a Warg or steed. The long spear was useful only as long as it stayed in its owner's hand.

Sulyë launched the short spear at the nearest Warg, causing a howl to be let up as it received a trampling. Although a long spear is useful in small skirmishes, it becomes unwieldy in a battle as large as this. Sulyë threw the long spear as well, killing one Rider and unseating another with the shaft.

"Just you and me," Sulyë whispered to his sword. "Fail me not."

The archers in front dropped their bows and drew their swords.

"Make ready!" cried Sulyë. Those still with spears threw them and took up their blades. "Arani!"

"ARANI!" echoed the reply.

They were close enough to hear the growls and yelps of the remaining Wargs. Some Wargs had already killed a few of their own troops that had gotten in the way. With the sun glinting red off the blood-stained swords, the front lines clashed with fury.

"One, two," counted Sulyë as he removed a Warg's head, flipping the Rider into the stampede. "Three, four." Another Warg down, the Rider becoming a better acquaintance with the dirt. Usually if you missed the Warg, you'd hit the Rider anyways. Watching the flank, Sulyë stabbed into the foes before him.

"I am ready for death!" he cried. "Come if you must!"

-----

Kharlûk sneered at the carnage in front of him. He would eat well tonight. The first three rows were nearly decimated for both sides. Soon, the more experienced Quodi fighters would join the fray. All Wargs besides the reserve troops were slaughtered, leaving the Easterling forces at the whim of the Arani. They fell back for a moment, but when reinforced by the Quodi, nothing could stop them.

Laughing at the useless valor of the Arani, Kharlûk signaled his troops he had hidden in the forest. Almost entirely Quodi, these troops would circle in and close off all escape. A warrior's worst fear is to be outflanked. Kharlûk could now smell the fear. He loved the taste of death.

-----

"Araniel! Araniel!" Berethor shouted to the Estelli in the lead. "Someone must return! The city must be warned!"

"It's too late for that now," Araniel replied. "One shall return to the city, but if he left now, he would be pursued and tortured before death."

"Send Lindórë, milord," shouted Berethor. He is our fastest rider."

"He is also our most skilled archer. No," Araniel decided as his gray eyes turned to steel, "we cannot send anyone. Death will meet us in splendor!"

"Milord!" Lindórë called out to his master. "Look!"

The riders of the Quodi poured out of the forest on both sides of the plain. Although they could never catch one of the Mearas, Araniel knew that to abandon his troops would be faithless. No, he _must_ press on.

He must.

-----

Chaos.

Utter and complete chaos.

Kharlûk was enjoying every second of death, every cry of pain, every scream and curse. He lived for death, breathed it, drank to it, worshipped it.

He knew he had forever. _Not quite forever,_ he reminded himself, _but close enough._ He would live for some three hundred years. He was the wisest of all orcs, could learn nearly any trade, but thirsted for blood. Over the last eighteen years, Kharlûk had studied war, becoming the youngest general of the Easterlings in over one thousand years. Death was his passion, his life.

Kharlûk allowed himself to enjoy the moment. He and the fair one were the only ones who could see all of the destruction, but Kharlûk alone could enjoy the carnage to its fullest extent. He laughed as he saw a Quodi's head fly from his shoulders, knocking an Arani off balance. The Arani slid forward from the saddle and brought the horse to its knees. An Easterling's horse tried to jump over the fallen Arani, but missed its mark and stumbled. The Easterling lost his sword and fell underneath his mount.

Kharlûk's laughing grew louder.

"Death, come and take us all!"

-----


	5. Do Not Be Too Eager…

Chapter 4: _**Do not be too eager…**_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Tolkien's works. Sadly. The usual… it's not mine if you've seen it before. Also, I do not know any Black Speech. Anything that looks like Black Speech, you can assume it's a different language. If anyone knows Black Speech, just tell me how to say the quotes and I'll fix them.

**A/N:** I'm becoming one of those people who always ask for reviews. My hope is one day I won't have to. Until then, have fun reading. REVIEW!!!

-----

_No turning back._ Araniel approached the carnage at full speed. He held onto his spear with his left hand, and with his right, he blessed Bárang on his forehead. _Eru, save us!_

Berethor grimaced, feeling the gallop with every muscle and joint in his body. _I must focus. I must._ He drew his sword and found himself asking Manwë for help. _I believe!_ He blessed Eru for life.

Ðørin cursed his bad luck. Throwing his spear at the chaos, he followed the others to death and glory.

Lindórë fired his arrows with a speed to rival an Elf. As he reached for his final arrow, he noticed a dart fly from the approaching Quodi. His last arrow fell harmless to the ground.

Elrodan prepared himself. _I welcome death. Sixty-three years is enough time for a warrior to live. I have seen too much of war._ As he entered the fray, he called his battle cry, "Arani!"

-----

Valgorúth watched in horror as the Plainsman Ðørin met his foes. The short fighter was lost in the sea of opponents, never to be seen again. The horses of the Arani were wasted; most riders had dismounted in order to better attack their opponents. Val lost sight of his father and teacher as they leapt off their horses into the sea of death.

_What is happening?_

-----

"Good, good." Kharlûk was nearing hysteria. "The generals are engaged. Our victory shall be swift."

Túka turned to the mixed-breed. "Not all of my men are fighting yet. It will be but a short time before the noose draws about their necks."

"When that happens, _nothing_ shall stop our conquest! Quodi shall rule all of Gondor, even unto Minas Tirith itself!"

"Quodi shall rule. I shall dethrone the Estelli. Who do they think they are? How come they think they are more fit to rule than we?"

"They are not, my Túka. You should rule. Why are you less special than they? It is by their own claim that they are blessed by the gods. The _gods!_ Who are _they_ anyways? I don't see Eru charging down that slope. Has Manwë fallen asleep?"

"Fairy tales! Children's stories! They are no more real than our allegiance to Gondor!" Túka glared at the Arani with defiance.

"All a warrior needs is a good sword. He needs no god, no deity! Just his hand and his sword."

Túka sat up tall in his saddle. "There is no God! Eru does not exist! I deny Him and all his legions! Hear that, Araniel? I do not believe in your God!"

"_Takh-hâr náfu!_ To each his own! We need no faith in a distant dream!" The lechery of Kharlûk was working.

"_Takh-hâr náfu!_"

-----

_Death._

_It surrounds me. There is no escape. All shall perish._

It seemed as though the Easterlings didn't wish to kill him, just take him alive. _To where?_

Berethor spun to throw off an Easterling that had grabbed him from behind. Enemies were on all sides.

_Must reach Araniel!_

_-----_

Araniel defended himself as if in a dream. Fighter's instinct took over. He grabbed an Arani rapier from a fallen soldier. Switching his strong blade to his left hand, he grabbed the armor-piecing sword in his right. He watched as another Easterling rushed him. Dazedly, he tossed the Easterling to the ground without effort.

-----

Berethor finally reached his captain. "Araniel! All is lost! If we don't leave now, we'll never make it out alive!"

Araniel glanced at Berethor, then turned back to his foes. "Life is impossible. We must try to defend our city as best as we can. If we fail here, the enemy will attack our city. _When_ we fail. We must lower their numbers."

Berethor realized the hopelessness of their plight. "I consider it an honor to die for you, my lord."

-----

Elrodan forced his way to the front line. Only a handful of soldiers were left, most of whom he had taught himself. "Rally to me, to me!" he cried. _These are my best fighters. Let's show these traitors how the Arani fight._

The Arani instantly knew what their general wanted. They gathered together, a tight circle of flaming fury. The Quodi and Easterling armies were dismayed for a moment, but once they had fully encircled their enemies, they knew it was only a matter of time.

-----

Berethor joined Araniel, fighting back to back. "Master, we must send word to our city! They will be caught off guard and be destroyed!"

"There is one fighter who has not joined us in battle, yet came with us all the way. My son, Valgorúth, followed us against my wishes, but now, I am glad he did. He shall warn the people, if he doesn't die on his return trip."

"If he is anything like his father, I think that Morgoth himself would have trouble bringing him down."

-----

Kharlûk and Túka watched, bloodthirsty, as all hell broke loose on Middle-Earth. There were no more than a few dozen Arani still fighting, but they were all helped by their generals. Kharlûk shouted out his order to his buglers, "Ignore the generals! Kill the rest, and leave the generals alive! _I want them alive!_"

-----

Berethor and Araniel were amazed as all of a sudden, their attackers turned and ran away from them. Araniel looked over the heads of his foes to see where they were headed. He saw a group of about fifty men in a circle with Elrodan leading them. He turned to Berethor and shouted, "Over there! Elrodan and his men are making a last stand. We must help them!"

"Sir, we can get free and leave! Why should we die when we don't need to?"

"Because we will be cowards for eternity. Would you leave your old master to die a horrible death? I understand this enemy. He will not allow us to escape, yet he does not want us dead yet. He is as bloodthirsty as the orcs of old, and he wants the glory for having killed us himself. His mind is perturbed to the point of giving himself glory where none can be found. He is more a coward than anything else, yet I seem to understand his moves perfectly."

"He is as cowardly as a dog. He knew we would only bring a supplement force, not our entire battalion. Oh, save us, Manwë! Save us!"

-----

Manwë looked up suddenly. He heard a faint cry from the Far East. _I believe! Save us, Manwë! Save us!_ He rose from his seat and began to leave the throne room.

"What have you heard, Manwë?"

The Vala turned around to face Eru. "O great Ilúvatar, a cry from the East has come out of great need! If it is your will, milord, I must go help."

Ulmo started from his pool. "I shall help you. The Eastern Sea is now as much a home to me as the Western. This cry comes from the land of the Quodi, and their harbor has recently turned against me. I will be glad to destroy this treacherous people."

Suddenly Varda, the companion of Manwë, stood up. "I too have received a pitiful cry of help. It comes from one who still knows the Elven tongues of many years ago. _Ai Elbereth, Gilthoniel_, he cries. It is the voice of a young boy, but his prayer contains the power of centuries. He is the descendent of Estel."

Suddenly, Eru spoke to the group. "Peace! Be still. We know and have heard all petitions from the time of the Great Song until the End of the World, which none know but ourselves."

Eru rose and began his decree. His voice quivered with pain. "We must ignore these petitions, for the sands of time cannot regretfully be stayed by one man's prayer. However, the small boy must not die. We wish for all the Valar to aid this boy in his escape back to his city. He must not die, for there are plans for him."

The Valar stood and bowed. "Your will be done, Ilúvatar," they said in one voice. Manwë, Ulmo, and their brethren left the halls of Mandos and made ready to leave. Tulkas and Oromë readied their chariots of fire while Námo, the Doomsman, loosed the doors of death.

-----

At last, only the generals were left of the Arani upon the long fields of Quodi. With a great struggle, the arms of the Arani were taken away and presented to Kharlûk. The mixed-breed drew out the sword of Araniel, Bárang, from the pile. "I always wished to see this sword," he snarled. He hefted it as though it weighed no more than a dagger. "The greatest sword ever, eh? Even greater than Narsil of your forefathers? If I remember correctly, didn't Narsil break under the foot of the great Sauron?"

"And if I remember, didn't Estel return with the re-forged Narsil and destroy the 'great' Sauron?" Berethor snarled with disgust. "What do you have to say to that, you piece of sh—"

Berethor was silenced by a quick sweep of Bárang. His head rolled towards Kharlûk, his face still in an expression of hatred. Berethor's great scar seemed to mock the enemy warrior, and his eyes were full of anger. "Clean up this mess!" Kharlûk barked to one of his attendants. Turning his attention to Araniel, he decided to have a little fun.

"Do you understand how I have come to defeat you, my dear Araniel?" Kharlûk's voice was filled with sarcasm. "Twenty years ago, your village was raided while you were on a hunting party. Fool! You left the women and children alone so that you could have a little sport with a few deer."

Araniel remained silent.

"Why don't you kill us and be done with it?" whispered Elrodan.

"What was that, my love?" snarled the evil general.

"If you kill us now, you can get on with your conquest sooner. Why don't you take advantage? Who's having the sport now?"

"If you don't shut your mouth, your fate might not be as nice as your friend's." Kharlûk brimmed with his anger.

"No matter what you do to me, you will never take Gondor, you pitiful piece of slime. You are as worthless as a blackfly when compared to a mountain. Why even bother with talking?"

"Túka? Could you bring me my knife?" The traitor brought a ten-inch dagger out from the general's tent. The hilt was pure gold, studded with some of the finest rubies and emeralds that Elrodan had ever seen. The blade was made of pure diamond and sharpened so that the edge and tip were barely visible. It was obvious that Kharlûk paid a great price for this dagger.

"You didn't heed my warning, dear Elrodan. You will wish you had."

"My friends of old, you Quodi! You do not need to follow this man! I knew you when you were our allies! Return to us and Eru will forgive you!"

"Are you quite done, father? Eru does not exist! If he does, where is he now? Is he sleeping? Maybe he went on vacation!" The laughter of tens of thousands of enemies filled Elrodan's ears.

"Ilúvatar does what He deems best. I do not doubt Him, nor do I doubt that you will be repaid in full for what you are doing here today."

"I've had enough of this!" Kharlûk advanced toward the old man.

-----

Valgorúth watched in horror as Kharlûk used his dagger to cut the fingers and toes off the old man's limbs. He closed his eyes and plugged his ears, but he could not shut out the scream of his former friend and teacher. All of a sudden, a strong hand seized him from behind, clamping his mouth shut. Val screamed into the silencing hand as seven men and seven women surrounded him. The men were all kingly in appearance, and the ladies were all more beautiful than he could imagine. Immediately he silenced himself. The tallest and mightiest of them knelt before him.

"You will remain quiet," he whispered. "We are here to help you. Release him, Ulmo."

The woman beside him approached. "I am Varda, my young one. I heard your prayer, and we have come to help you escape. You can do nothing to help your father's life, but there is one thing you can do that will help your people."

Valgorúth stared in amazement as the tall one, obviously Manwë, continued. "I realize you wish to stay until you know there is nothing you can do. I wish you didn't have to, but you shall now watch your father's death.

-----

Kharlûk wiped the blood off his hands. "Put the bodies in the icebox!" he commanded. "Where was I? Oh, yes. You left the women to be killed or taken by the Easterlings. Foolish man."

Araniel said nothing.

"Well, among one of those women we took before you returned was a young woman named, oh what was it? That's right, Elanor."

Araniel's steely eyes turned the color of a thundercloud, about to flow over with the inevitable rain. He could imagine the pain she went through in the torture chambers of the Easterlings.

"By the way, my wonderful foe, she was my mother. Allow me to count it as a privilege to meet and kill my mother's husband."

"Eru will still forgive you, my son." Araniel's voice was quiet and resigned.

Kharlûk burst into laughter. "I doubt that! Don't preach to me; your words get nowhere. Nowhere but death." With that, he plunged his dagger into Araniel's heart. Araniel gasped out and slowly collapsed to the ground. The beautiful dagger melted into gold dust and blew away. Where the ashes of the dagger fell, the plains turned to dirt and no grass ever grew again.

-----

"Now we must go, Valgorúth." Manwë's voice was filled with sadness and regret.

-----

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long! Seven months is too long to wait for a new chapter. I hope that my readers will forgive me! Thanks again to Dalamar for beta-ing my story!

--JBRam & Valgorúth


End file.
